


Proper Nouns and Adjectives

by SweetGanymead



Series: More Gullible Than Innocence [4]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Sex, M/M, Mild BDSM, Orgasm Delay/Denial, actual sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-30
Updated: 2017-04-04
Packaged: 2018-10-12 20:20:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 13,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10498761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SweetGanymead/pseuds/SweetGanymead
Summary: Dorian and The Bull explore the nature of their relationship.





	1. Qualifying Adverbs

Dorian had been seeing the Bull for almost four months, or one third of a year. Gossip had spread quickly,the Inquisition’s inner circle was prone to social in-breeding.

At first, it was nerve-wracking. Dorian felt anxious, wondered when someone might say something, terrified The Bull would decide it wasn’t worth the effort when there were so many normal, pretty girls to choose from.

Yet they had grown close enough, Bull re-words their first ground rule. Now they can have all the tipsy sex they want, provided Dorian can balance on one leg or recite the alphabet backwards.

As the days turned into weeks, it became increasingly apparent no one would step forward to pass judgement. The Bull now had a heavy deadbolt on his door. Dorian had hideous curtains. Everyone seemed content.

Even Blackwall stoically bore Bull’s incessant displays of affection.

Cullen was still activity avoiding the pair after catching them in the War Room, but… Dorian suspected that reflected more on Cullen’s opinions of sex in general and not any particular set of predilections.

 

The Inquisitor still visits Dorian in the library, staying late to discuss family or demons (same thing, really, when one is from Tevinter). Even asking after The Bull, their relationship, assuring Dorian it’s not an official concern. Warmth blooms in the mage’s chest as he tries to express how much he cares for hulking qunari.

When the Inquisitor leaves, Dorian stays to tidy up his desk, organising his notes, and returning books to their proper shelves.

One question sticks out in his mind, making it impossible to get all the almanacs placed in chronological order.

_What’s going on between you and Iron Bull, exactly?_

If the Inquisitor hadn’t attached any qualifiers, Dorian would have had a more definitive (much more carnal) answer.

 

At first, he’d been a little too embarrassed to admit to Bull he was trying to learn Qunlat. There wasn’t much literature to go by and certainly no Common-Qunlat dictionary Dorian had been able to find, not for lack of trying.

 _Exactly_ where were the rebellious archivists he’d been promised?

Dorian had settled for buying a Tal-Vashoth merchant drinks in exchange for lessons. Sometimes he felt like she was pulling his leg. Qunlat seemed so conditional, the same word might have a few different meanings based on context. Trying to practice with Bull was dicey, he didn’t think he could recover if the merchant mis-taught him a dirty phrase.

He asked her once how to say ‘I love you’ in Qunlat. Not that he was planning on saying something so mushy anytime soon… just that it might be useful to have the saying in his back pocket in case Bull was planning on saying it to him first.

She thought long and hard, combed her fingers through her lustrous silver hair.

“I can teach you how to say ‘I want to pleasure your genitals with my mouth,’ but we don’t really say ‘I love you.’ Not like how you mean it.”

Not entirely satisfied, Dorian still had her write the offered translation on a scrap of paper.

How did qunari express love? He was so preoccupied he crashed into Solas on his way down the stairs.

“Sorry,” Dorian helped him with his fallen books, “I’m a little distracted today.”

Solas accepted the assistance, indicated no apology was necessary.

“What is on your mind?” The slight elf asked as they climbed back to the library.

“Have you ever-” Dorian collected his thoughts, “How do elves indicate they love each other? Not physical love, but romantic.”

The question seemed to make Solas uncomfortable, it sounded explicitly non-academic. He had been expecting Dorian might need help with a translation or tracking the origin of ancient artifacts.

“I enjoy our discussions, my friend, but you would be better served speaking with another about such concerns.”

Dorian nodded, leaving Solas to his work.

 

The Iron Bull was already posted in the Herald’s Rest when Dorian entered. The Chargers cheered at his arrival, all in various states of intoxication.

Bull offered him a flagon of something pungent. He took a sip before stating his assessment.

It was worse than rotting lemons. It may have been the worse thing Dorian has ever had the misfortune of swallowing.

“This tastes terrible.” He drank again, to make sure he hadn't overstated the quality.

“Dragon Piss!”

Wow. Bull sounded way too enthusiastic.

“Come again? You don’t mean really.”

“I’ll come any time you ask.” Difficult to tell when The Bull is winking. “And… well, who can say?”

Dorian wiped his tongue on a napkin before heading to the bar to order anything else.

He was about to request the cheeky berry liquor he’d tried the other day when a sudden, heavy weight latched onto his shoulders, bending him backwards.   

“Haven’t seen you ‘round lately, bitchy britches.” Sera, hanging off him like a day pack.

“I am here almost every day.”

“Yeah, but always with that grubby lot,” the elf pointed towards Bull and the Chargers. “It’s like, woah, how much sausage can you have at the table? Smells like stewing in man, but I ‘spose that’s alright for you.”

“You might be more of an expert on this, but I’m fairly certain Skinner and Dalish are women.”

Sera rolled her eyes, pulled a face, “Uhg! Elves!”

“Aren’t- oh, never mind. I suppose you want me to buy you a drink?” Dorian was proud of himself, learning to pick his battles and make friends.

“There’s a proper gentleman! Get some of the stuff that makes your tongue turn blue!”

He was not sure how to convey the request, but Cabot handed him a bottle without missing a beat.

“Oh, right, before I forget. I was wondering if you could help me out with something?” Sera slid off his back so she could grab him by the arm, tug him towards the stairs.

Dorian glanced over to the Chargers, all still revelling, The Bull absorbed in likely bawdy or bloody tale being recounted by Rocky.

“Lead the way.”

 

They enjoyed the liqueur on the roof below Sera’s window, drank straight from the bottle.

“Only straight thing we’ll likely get up to.” Sera quipped, earning a snorting laugh.

“Very likely.” Dorian wished he had known the woman in his youth, wondered how many years of self-loathing could have been prevented with someone to commiserate.

Misery loves company, but Sera loves a drinking partner.

“So what is this very urgent matter that only I can assist with?”

“Nug poops.” Sera hopped to her feet and briefly disappeared into her room. When she returned, she was carrying a plate of misshapen, over-baked cookies.

“I made these, if you can believe that.”

Dorian absolutely believed her.

“Go on, try one!”

The mage resolved to say something nice, no matter what the hard little lumps tasted like.

He gagged, unable to keep himself from immediately spitting it out. He would drink and entire tankard of Dragon Piss just to wash the taste out of his mouth.

“Vishante kaffas! What did you put in these?”

Sera giggled, “I _know_. Worst thing you’ve ever tasted, innit? I had one early today, total shite.”

Dorian was honestly a little offended. He had actually been considering saying something affirming to her.

“That’s what I’m up against, any how. I don’t know how to bake, but you seem decent ‘round a campfire. I thought you could tell me what I’m doing wrong.”

He sighed deeply, turning the tough disk over in his hands.

“First of all, you need to bake cookies using actual food ingredients. Seriously, you need to tell me what these are made of in case I need to tell a healer.”

“That’s all food!” Sera protested, “I used flour, cocoa, lard, raisins, yeast, salt, and eggs.”

Egg shells, Dorian realised, spitting a tiny piece off the roof. He tried to remember the recipe one of his family’s slaves used to bake. She was a kindly, matronly older woman, more mother to him than his own flesh and blood much of the time.

“Butter.” He insisted. “You need to use butter, not lard. Flour, yes, cocoa, fine. Eggs, and only the whites and yolks. No shells. Sugar instead of salt.”

“Could you, like, write it down for me?”

“I can,” Dorian took another drink from the bottle, “and I will.”

“Smarty-arse.” Sera snatched the bottle back, spilling a little.

The sun was beginning to set, shadows elongating across the courtyard below.

“Why do you even want to know how to make cookies?” The man finally asked, curiosity getting the better of him.

“Long and boring or short and pervy?”

“Oooh, the later, _please_.”

“Feckin’ queen.” Sera grins before relenting, “Let’s just say I want to let someone know how I feel.”

Dorian made a cupping motion in front of his chest, miming the buxom redheaded serving girl.

“Huh? Oh. No, not her. Don’t think she’s that way. Little bean bun of a dwarf. I don’t know how well you know her.”

“So….. you wanted to bake cookies to woo a dwarf?”

“Yeah, no, kinda.” Cryptic as always. “Cookies just always seemed like the ultimate expression of caring. Not just a wham bam, thank you ma’am. You put love into making the cookies, the cookies taste good, the person eating them knows exactly how much you love them. Right?”

There’s that Maker-be-damned qualifier again. Dorian wonders if he should cook for The Bull more. They usually eat at the Rest, unless they are out in the woods.

“Anyway, write down the recipe, yeah? Before you go meet up with your big piece of man muffin. You’ll forget otherwise.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” Dorian could feel his ears turning red, blush staining across his face.

“You’ll get to your room, get a pen and paper, he’ll toss you on the bed and suddenly it’s all:

“Ah! Oh! Eek! Bull, you’re too big!” He assumed the falsetto she affected was supposed to be him.

“Don’t worry, Dorian, you can take it.” Her attempt at a deep, gravely voice.

“Wham! Wham! Ah, ah! Wham! Spurt-spurt and I never get my recipe.”

He tried for a moment to find his voice, feeling something akin to violation.

“Go get me a pencil and paper.” Dorian mutters.

 

He’s putting the finishing touches on the recipe when The Bull calls up to them from the yard.

“Do you want me to order you something?”

“No.” Dorian calls back down, “I’m heading inside now, anyway.”

 

At the table, he contemplates Sera’s conception of expressing love.

“Say, Bull, do you like cookies?”


	2. Present Tense Verbs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tree has apparently had a good deal of rest.

The Bull is excited about the prospect of freshly baked cookies, only slightly disappointed he has to wait until the next day for them.

Dorian is full of surprises, it is thrilling there is still so much more to know about the man. Hopefully, more of these surprises come in the form of baked goods.

Cakes, Bull decides, he wants Dorian to bake him lots and lots of cakes.

But tonight, The Old Bull has a few surprises of his own. It’s been a few days since Dorian has had a screaming orgasm, a grave injustice the qunari intends to rectify in full.

They complete what is fast becoming a nightly ritual, Dorian washing Bull worshipfully, pressing kisses to his scars, massaging knots with soothing balms. The Bull then lays back on the bed, stroking himself hard while the smaller man bathes, slippery and glistening with scented soaps, for Bull’s viewing pleasure.

Bull starts off gentle, laying Dorian against the mattress, holding him in his great arms. They kiss softly, the mage nipping lightly, eagerly.

“Close your eyes, don’t move.” The Bull instructs, sliding off the bed when Dorian complies. He retrieves the paper wrapped parcel from its hiding place under the bed, unwrapping it with a grin.

“Open them.”

Dangling above Dorian’s face is a very large (very pink) dawnstone phallus. The runes etched along the base are nearly identical to those on his beloved bloodstone dildo. The head is blunt, round, carved veins run the substantial length of stone.

“Wha’dya think, big guy?” Bull is grinning lecherously.

Dorian swallows nervously. The Bull chuckles.

The dawnstone cock is set aside for the moment. Bull takes a slim, tan wrist in each of his massive hands, presses them into the mattress at Dorian’s sides.

“Stay.” There is a warning in Bull’s voice. “Do not move from that position.”

The smaller man nods that he understands, he will keep his hands by his hips.

The Bull sits between Dorian’s legs. He hold up a jar so the mage can see it the labeling - the capsaicin oil Dorian distills for muscle aches.

The hulking qunari feels his prick twitch when Dorian whimpers in anticipation.

Oil is generously applied to Dorian’s nipples and inner thighs before Bull uses it to work him open.

To his credit, Dorian is gripping the sheets, white-knuckled, but stays remarkably still as the giant stone phallus inches into him. He is given a few seconds to adjust once the cock is all the way inside. His eyes go wide when Bull begins to pound him with it.

Simply gorgeous, Bull thinks as he watches Dorian’s gaze start to lose focus. Brows arching together, his expression is almost serene. Breaths are quicker, catching as the mage tries to keep his hips from lifting off the mattress. Even though he no longer seems fully capable of higher thought, Dorian tries dutifully to obey Bull’s directive.

Kind of like a puppy, Bull muses. He would definitely like to see Dorian dressed up like a puppy; little ears, a collar and lead. There were probably interesting ways to incorporate a tail too. The indignation on his face giving way to open mouth panting, tongue out.

Wait a moment. Bull bought himself back to the moment. Was Dorian’s tongue blue right now? 

 

Dorian is right on the edge when Bull abruptly pulls the dawnstone dick out of him. He makes a choking noise, looks up at The Bull with a pained expression.

“Lay back down.” Bull orders. “You’re going to earn it tonight.”

The qunari resumes his relentless thrusts, waits until Dorian’s toes are curling, his body shaking, eyes closed tightly, before pulling it out again. The smaller man cries out in frustration, struggling to maintain his position.

After only 15 minutes of this treatment, Dorian is openly sobbing, begging The Bull to let him come.

“Please, Bull, I c-can’t…”

Outside of this room, Bull hates the idea of making Dorian cry, knows he would put anyone who hurt his mage through a brick wall without a second thought.

Within the confines of the bed itself is another story altogether. Here, the tears are a wonderful indicator Dorian is right where he needs to be. They mean The Bull has succeeded in bringing Dorian to the absolute threshold of what he can withstand. Pleasure and pain reach a razor sharp point, form the edge of a precipice they are both too willing to tumble over.

But, a threshold can also intimate a limit, a boundary which must be respected. The game is only fun if Dorian _thinks_ the watchword. It is over if he says ‘katoh.’   

Bull places the dildo aside, rolls Dorian over onto his stomach. The mage offers no resistance when he is manoeuvred up onto his knees, face down ass up.

“There we go.” Bull soothes, his dick sliding easily into Dorian’s overworked hole. “Open up for me, sweetheart. Take me deep.”

He snaps his powerful hips, plunging as deep and hard as Dorian’s body will allow.

Bull rests a hand against Dorian’s belly, below the navel. When he presses his palm up he can sort of feel his own cock moving inside the smaller man. It stokes his ego.

The Bull bends further, so he can whisper in Dorian’s ear.

“Such a good boy. You’ve earned this one. Bite the pillow, baby. Bite the pillow and come for me.”

Dorian spasms around him, screaming Bull’s name into the pillow as he orgasms. Bull continues to fuck him, the mage whimpering his name like a prayer.

“Fuck,” Bull is getting there himself, “Hope your ready, big guy. I’m gunna fill you with so much come, you'll be tasting me for a week.”

They collapse in a heap of limbs and horns, hearts still racing. Dorian lays boneless on the blankets, drifting in and out of wakefulness while Bull checks him over for any unintended damage.

“Hey, you alive there?” The Bull prods Dorian with a finger.

“Not sure.” The exhausted response worries Bull before Dorian continues, “I think I may have died and gone to heaven.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear, this chapter initially had some element of plot in it. It kinda dragged down the pr0nz, so I split it into two pieces. 
> 
> Enjoy the smut, because now its back to feelings.


	3. Defining Pronouns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fluffier than a feather bed.

Alert the town crier, Dorian thought to himself when he awoke before The Bull.

He was still curled against the qunari’s broad chest, arm cramping a little from the odd angle. He had long since given up finding a way for Bull to sleep comfortably on his side, resigned himself to the fact they were not a couple made for spooning.

He went through a mental log of the previous evening. The Bull had called him ‘sweetheart’ and ‘baby.’ It was not the first time either of the terms had been used, but they were still unsatisfying in resolving what each man meant to the other.

Dorian couldn’t imagine introducing Bull to a new acquaintance by saying ‘And this is my baby, The Iron Bull. We’re sweethearts, you see.’

Not without a heavy dose of irony.

Enough of this, he told himself, you are not a school girl. You are a fully grown man and it’s time to use your words like an adult.

“Bull.” Dorian shook The Bull.

“Huh? What?” Large hands grasped for a weapon that was not there. His one good eye blearily searched for an absent danger. The act seemed a little theatrical. Bull possibly parodying his shock at finding Dorian awake so early.

Or it really was that unexpected.

“Woah, someone call the Skyhold crier, you’re awake early.”

Dorian knew he couldn’t claim the joke as he hadn't said it out loud. It still pissed him off a bit. He wanted to argue, but stopped himself.

“What am I to you?” He asked point blank.

The Bull shifted a little so he could look Dorian in the eye. The question did not make sense outside of the context of the mage’s musing. Clearly, Bull had no clue how to answer.

“You are… Dorian?”

“ _What_ not who, ass.”

Rather than clarifying, this appeared to confuse The Bull further.

“I don’t know what you’re asking.” Bull stated evenly.

Dorian was a little embarrassed to admit he didn’t have all that solid a grasp himself. He knew he was driving at something, something tremendously discomforting but necessary. All feeling and no conscious thought. The sensation was not unlike charging blindly forward in a dark cavern hoping to find a sliver of light.

Sentimental, sappy kaffas.

“Last night-”

“Uh-huh?”

“You called me sweetheart, but…” Now Dorian felt like a moron. He had a premonition the conversation was about to get away from him.

Oh, Maker, he thought, I can’t be about to say what I think I am.

“But what?” Bull wondered if maybe Dorian didn’t like pet names, though he had never raised an objection before.

“I asked before if we were just having fun. Is that what this is?”

“You’re not having fun?”

“No- I mean, yes, I am.” The mage could feel an unpleasant heat rising in his face, prickling along his neck. “I mean, if- if you had to introduce me to someone, say, you would say I was your...?”

“Hm. Why is that important? You know I don’t care what other people think.”

“It would be nice to have clarification, even for my own sake. I would like to know where I stand in your mind.”

Bull began to grin, now following the line of questioning to a conclusion.

“You want to know if I’m serious about you or not.”

“Forget I said anything!” Dorian shouted at the sight of Bull’s widening smile, tried to crawl out of the bed. The Bull caught him around the waist, pulled him back under the covers.

“Holy shit.” Bull laughed. “Are you trying to ask if I _love_ you? Do you _love_ me?”

Dorian squirmed in his grip, red from his hairline to below his collarbone.

“No, I do not, you stupid brute.”

“You do love me!” Bull almost sang the words, teasing, way too full of himself, refusing to let the smaller man wriggle out of his arms.

The mage contemplated setting the bed on fire, burning them both to death so he didn’t have to meet The Bull’s gloating. He would die before giving that thick skulled beast the satisfaction of admitting it first.

“Come on, say it.” Bull goaded.

“Fine, I’ll say it if you won’t.” The Bull hugged the furiously blushing man tight. “I love you, Dorian.”

Dorian laid perfectly still in his embrace, looking pointedly at the hideous yellow curtains.

“Now it’s your turn. You say ‘I’m madly in love with you, The Iron Bull. I want to marry you and have your babies. Take me hard and take me now!’”

“Arrogant bastard.”

“Well that’s just the pot calling the kettle black.”

“I…” Dorian hesitated, the words on the tip of his tongue, “... am not entirely unattached to you.”

“Ohh, so close!” Bull still had him pinned to the mattress.

“I… might… have feelings you could probably call love… for you.”

The Bull leaned in for a kiss, practically smothered the smaller man.

“I do, you know. I love you.” Bull repeated without jest.

“I guess,” Dorian’s voice is strained, “I love you, too.”

 

They were dressed, Dorian waxing his moustache into its perfect curl, when Bull spoke again.

“Kadan.”

It was a statement of fact, a response not tied to anything Dorian could reliably remember.

“Hm?” He looked up at The Bull.

“You asked what I would call you, if anyone asked. I would call you kadan.”

“Is that Qunlat?” He was beginning to feel all warm and fuzzy inside. How positively, disgustingly saccharine.

“Yes.”

“Your people’s word for lover?”

“Qunari don’t have a word for lover; we don’t have sex for love. But kadan means ‘where the heart lies.’ Probably about as near as we get.”

“Do I call you kadan, too, then?” The word didn’t feel quite right in Dorian’s mouth.

“If you want to. You don’t need to call me anything so-”

“Long as I don’t call you late for dinner, yes, I know.” Finishing each other’s sentences already.

Dorian considered the term for a few moments, but couldn’t get used to the idea of using it himself.

“Amatus.” Dorian decided, he had always wanted to use the word, to call someone one his love and mean it.

“Whatever works for you, kadan.”


	4. Identifying Signifiers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Words are lovely, but sometimes you need something to hold onto.

Now armed with an actual Qunari word, Dorian set out to do a little more research. He was certain there was more to the horned people’s mating rituals than mindless rutting. If Bull is capable of Love it stands to reason others in his land are as well.

Using the promised cookies as an excuse to slip away, Dorian sought out the Tal-Vashoth merchant for an in depth exploration of Qunari displays of Love.

 

Krem notices something different with The Bull this morning. The great qunari is jovial as always, quick with his jokes, patient in their training, but something is definitely different.

When they break for lunch, Bull is absently mindedly fiddling with a clump of flowers growing by his heel. His smile can only be described as idiotic. Before Krem can ask if Bull has been struck on the head one time too many, his commander asks:

“What does ‘amatus’ mean?”

He really should have guessed the love-struck stupor for what it was.

“I’m not really good at the old tongue, Chief. I’m going to go with ‘beloved,’ but that’s a commoner’s understanding.”

“Beloved.” Bull is weighing the word with his lips, like he can kiss the very idea.

“Andraste’s tits, you’ve got it bad.”

Instead of responding, Bull lies back in the grass, hands folded behind his head. The breeze blows gently, rustling their sweaty clothes.

“I want to get him a gift.” The Bull says conclusively.

“So get him one.”

“What do the people of Tevinter give each other, in a situation like this?”

“You mean two men in Tevinter? Not really something the lower castes indulge in. If we’re talking magisters,  I’m assuming crabs followed by dirty looks across the ballroom?”

“Krem.”

“Oh, alright. I suppose a gold ring is traditional. Probably set with some little flashy bit of precious stone.”

This seems a little impersonal to Bull. Like it could be found on the pages of Varric’s more poorly written novels.

“How about a giant, whopping dildo?” Krem tries.

When Bull grins salaciously, obviously reliving some past event in his mind, Krem regrets saying anything at all.  

 

The merchant was lounging close to the stove, enjoying the very expensive wine the little man had bought her. He had very good taste, though that was evident from his choice to court a fellow qunari.

She felt her husband would adore him, so keen and eager to learn another’s culture for the sake of love. A trait she had not encountered before in a mage from from Tevinter. Pity he did not seem at all interested in the female sex.

Her name now was Hissera, bequeathed to her by her husband when she finally left the Qun to be with him, to live as man and wife and not merely breeding stock. This name she had not given to the little man, with a curly little moustache. She did not have cause to trust his reasons for asking for it, told him instead to call her ‘merchant.’

He was so easily flustered for a human with a glib tongue. He spoke so openly about a qunari man he would do anything to please. He did not press for her name, called her Merchant in a respectful tone.

She watched him, baking cookies of all things for an Altus to do, and listened as he divulged the results of his recent research. That he knew the word ‘kadan’ was a shock. That he wanted to know how to prove his commitment to the term was more surprising still.

“You need- how is it called in common? A tooth from ataashi. You break it in two pieces, each of you wears one piece. That way, you are always close, even when far apart.”

The little man had placed the cookie sheet on the table before her. The consideration he gave the implied task was commendable.

“Do you wear such a token, Merchant?”

She shook her head when he asked, held up her hand to show him her silver wedding ring. Her husband was not born under the Qun. She had followed his customs to marry him.   

“You aren’t fucking with me, are you?” He offered her a warm cookie, fresh from the baking sheet.

She could well understand his reticence. She was not sure she would face a dragon for a symbol of love.

It was unfortunate he seemed undaunted; the treat he gave her was delicious. She would try to remember it was not her fault when he was inevitably burned to a crisp by an angry dragon.

 

“Iron Bull!”

Bull turns when most of his name is shouted. Josephine was hurrying towards him, stopping a few feet away to catch her breath.

“Do you-” a few little puffs, “Goodness but you do walk fast- do you know where Dorian is?”

“Library? Why?” He isn’t sure Dorian will appreciate people knowing about the cookies.

“I checked.” Josephine says. “It is that- I have word from my cousin in Val Royeaux. His missing amulet, the Pavus birthright, she has seen it on a man walking the streets as bold as you please. Flaunting the pendant, claiming it as his own. I thought he would want to know.”

When The Bull looks blankly at her, she back-peddles.

“I would have thought, given your… I apologize, perhaps I have spoken out of turn.”

But this sounds interesting, Bull thinks. Something important to Dorian is missing, possibly stolen, The Bull cannot pass up the opportunity to retrieve it.

“Right,” Bull lets Hissrad speak for him, “Shit, I forgot about the amulet. Please, tell me about the man who has it. I’d be happy to visit him, express my thanks, for finding it.”

Josephine does not appear convinced, but tells Bull what she knows.

 

Dorian was pleased as punch, heading to the Herald’s Rest carrying a little bundle of cookies.

“Oy, mage.”

He paused, looked around for the source of the greeting. It was none other than Blackwall, big and beardy, making his way towards him.

“Dear, me.” Dorian bowed stiffly, “What can I do for the Grey Wardens this evening. Aside from offering an abundance of soap?”

“I’m in no mood, brat. Inquisitor wants us both at the gates, now. Nasty business with a nest of drakes terrorizing the elven settlements in the Graves. We’re to leave at once.”

Serendipitous, to say the least. Where there are drakes, there may yet be a dragon.

“Let me just say goodbye to Bull and I’ll meet-”

“No time for your foppish antics, if you aren't at the gate in three minutes, I’m coming back for you and I’m not going to be nice about it.”

That was certainly rude, Dorian thought as he rushed into the Rest. The Bull was not inside, so the mage left the bundle (along with a few coppers and a note) with Cabot. He didn’t really want to test the limits of the Warden’s patience.

 

This Ponchard character sounded an ass deserving of a boot up in him. Bull looked forward to beating him into the earth, taking back his kadan’s birthright. If he could get through dinner without Dorian catching on, it could prove a very romantic surprise.

He would leave early in the morning, make some excuse to leave Skyhold without the mage.

His attempts to keep a straight face were proven unnecessary when Cabot greeted him with sour face and a small package of baked goods.

The note pinned to the cloth read, in Dorian’s ornate script:

 _Amatus, called away on ghastly Inquisition business. The less written the better. Try not to worry too much. It causes wrinkles. If you really can’t help yourself, remember the green pot on the second tray of the washing stand. Lovingly yours, D_.

_P.S.: Do not touch my moustache cream._

Bull thinks for a moment. He decides his best course of action is to take advantage of the situation as it is presented to him.

He takes the cookies, and the note, and runs to the stable. There, he hires the sturdiest dracolisk available and sets out for Val Royeaux.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Help, I'm writing porn when I should be working.


	5. Linguistic Determinism

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Bull has an easier time procuring a gift than Dorian.

Ponchard proves to be as big a coward as Bull might have envisioned. He cowers when The Bull asks how he has come by the gold amulet hanging around his neck. When the little shitstain tries to blackmail the Inquisition for the pendant, a beating becomes legitimate recourse.

Turning down his pathetic attempts at bribery is so satisfying, the qunari can feel himself get an erection. All the better to strike fear into the heart of his enemy.

“The Pavus boy, he is your friend, means that much to you?” Ponchard has nowhere to run as Bull steps on the gold coins thrown his way, walks over them as if they are dry leaves crunching under his boots.

“Yeah, he’s everything in the world to me, and more than that even. It’s been two damn days since I have felt him against me and I ache for him. Give me the necklace now and I won’t be tempted to put a hole in the back of your head so I can use your skull as a substitute receptacle for my misplaced feelings.”

The gratuitously violent threat works better than expected. The noble hurls the pendant at him before fleeing in absolute terror. Bull is a little bummed he didn’t get a chance punch him more than once or twice.

Too easy, Bull thinks as he tucks the amulet into his pocket. Nothing left to do but return to Skyhold and await Dorian’s return.

 

In the Emerald Graves, Dorian was not having such an easy time.

“Fuck!” The mage shouted, tripping over yet another moss covered vine, “I hate this place!”

“You’re hurt, but not really hurt.” Cole announced to no one in particular, stood near Dorian but did not offer him assistance.

“Maybe if you spent less time preening, more time looking at anything but your own reflection in the damned dew drops, you wouldn’t fall down so much.” Blackwall found very little useful in Dorian, nothing at all in his temper tantrums.

The Grey Warden did not think he could bare a single night more around the man, the complaints about anything and everything. He would concede the mage could cook a flavourful stew, but he swore too often, too easily, made a huge fuss over even the smallest of problems.

Yes, it was humid in the jungle. This was evident even to Blackwall, maybe more so to him, as he was wearing heavy armour, carrying a giant shield. Dorian acted like his hair getting mussed was the worst of all possible outcomes in battle.

Anyone who had lived for a day in the real world knew the pain of real loss, the cost of war was paid for more dearly than by hair product. Lives could not be so effortlessly reshaped with the flick of a comb.  

The Inquisitor had gone on ahead of them, unwilling to act as a buffer for the constant bickering.

“It’s all this moss,” Dorian fumed, “It’s slippery and it is everywhere.”

“No one finds your bawling attractive. Shut your mouth and keep moving.”

“The Iron Bull likes my noises. Make them louder, I want to hear.” Cole spoke the mage’s memories aloud, “But how does hurt help hurt?”

“Cole!” Aggravation approaching wits end.

“Yes, Dorian?”

Blackwall tutted his disapproval. He had great respect for The Bull. He wondered what possible sway this pampered Tevinter brat held over such a mighty warrior.  

He was helpful enough Blackwall did not immediately ask the Inquisitor to send him home, the mage was reliable and quick with a spell to guard his companions. But he was erratic and unpredictable at all other times.

They had dispatched with one more of the drake harem, another nest of dragonlings, when Dorian again prised open the snaggle-toothed jowls before huffing in frustration.

“Just what are you looking for?” Blackwall was beyond annoyed. This was an inopportune time to be collecting components for dark magics. All it took was one last reflexive jolt and -snick- Dorian would find himself less a few fingers to a hand.

“Checking them for cavities, making sure they brushed their teeth regularly. It’s not remotely your fucking affair what I’m doing.” The snotty mage snipped.

“Too short in the tooth, they won’t do, you can’t break these in half.” Cole answered.

“COLE!” He had arrived at wits end. Might have overshot the destination.

“What is it, Dorian?”

“I keep telling you to restrict yourself during your little clairvoyant excavations. If you have a question, ask it with your corporeal mouth.”

Cole was lost in thought, though who’s was impossible to say.

“Are they called ‘toys’ because they are fun to play with?”

“You’re slowing us down, both of you.” Blackwall growled bitterly, cut off any response Dorian might have had. “Get your staff out of your arse and-”

They were so busy arguing, they don’t notice the Inquisitor running back in their direction, flailing their arms wildly, the Greater Mistral heading straight for them.

 

Bull is enjoying a fine whiskey at the Herald’s Rest. He has been conserving his cookies, making sure they last until his kadan returns and can bake him more. They are fantastic!  

It’s been days, the longest time they have spent apart since their first drunken night together, and they are only starting to go stale.

He misses Dorian terribly. Krem tells him he is lovesick and impossible to be around.

Dorian also tells him he is impossible, Bull recounts, Krem grunting in possibly genuine disgust before leaving the table to sit closer to the Bard singing her songs about Sera.

 

Blackwall thinks he may have misjudged this magister’s son.

When the Mistral landed in their midst, the spoiled Imperial did not shit himself in fear. The determined expression which crossed his face was one worthy of admiration.

Dorian set himself against the scaly beast with a single mindedness the Warden hadn’t thought him capable of. A slight tingle let the Blackwall know a barrier had been cast on him.

Companions protected, the mage rushed the dragon all flame and fury, staff glinting in the setting sun.

The man was insane, Blackwall concluded. Maybe two personalities in one head, some tragic result of Tevinter blood magic gone wrong. This Dorian doesn’t mind getting his hands dirty, his fine clothes covered in sweat and mud.

Blackwall’s assessment was seemingly confirmed when the mage put himself directly between the Mistral’s snapping teeth and a bewildered Cole.

“She only wants to know where her children are.” The spirit says sympathetically, coming too close to the vicious dragon.

She opens her mouth, intent on biting Cole in half. Dorian is faster with his magic than she with her teeth, time appeared to bend around him before the barrier took effect. The Warden can see the translucent shimmering envelope them.  

They both go down hard, Dorian pinned beneath the chomping jaws, Cole pinned beneath Dorian. Poor spirit still unable to understand why he is unable to untangle the dragon’s hurt.

Dorian cries out when the Mistral catches his leg, sinks her fangs into his thigh. He kicks her in the face repeatedly with his left leg, trying to keep her from closing her jaws completely with his staff, the blade jammed into the roof of her mouth. As her blood rains down, slicking the staff, it is clear he’s losing his grip on the weapon.

The mage's kicking isn't fazing the dragon, she isn't registering the blows. If the spell wears off before they can get away….

The considerable bad news is Dorian will lose the limb. The only good news, he may be killed before he has time to fully realise it.

A metallic pinging noise tells Blackwall the dragon is gnawing through the barrier. The Warden throws his whole weight behind the shield bash, hears a crack he sincerely hopes isn’t the mage’s leg.

It’s enough to knock her over, to give them a second to turn the tide. The Inquisitor calls forth the power of the Fade and the beast shrieks her last before being ripped apart by the anchor.

No one moves for a moment.

“Andraste, whore of the Maker.” Dorian is the one to break the silence. Trust him to mar a narrow victory with blasphemy.

“What were you thinking, Cole?” The Inquisitor asks in disbelief.

Cole is upset, though it is clear he doesn’t understand why he is being yelled at.

Blackwall moves to help them both up. The spirit stands easily, but Dorian immediately releases his hand with a yelp.

Even drenched in dragon blood, Blackwall can see something is wrong with the mage’s right leg. It is bleeding profusely and it won’t support his weight. It looks somehow shorter than his left.

Dorian clutches his hip with a shaking hand, reaches for what might be a bit of his own bone sticking out of the thigh.

Suddenly, Dorian laughs triumphantly. The Warden worries he might be going into shock.

The grinning man (and he is the only one of them who is remotely smiling) pulls the bit of white out of his flesh, reveals it to be a tapered, curved tooth about two inches long.

“Worth it.” Dorian pleasantly chirps, before fainting dead away.

 

It was late night when Cullen knocked on The Bull’s door.

“Cassandra has Chantry business to attend. Would you mind meeting the Inquisitor at the Direstone Camp rendezvous to relieve Blackwall? Varric and Lady Vivienne are already waiting to head out.”

Bull agreed enthusiastically, the large man bounded around his room trying to find something to wrap the necklace in. A pair of Dorian’s underpants might make for a humorous exchange.

“I think this is yours.” The Bull would say.

“Well, of course they are mine. I left them in your room the other day.” Dorian would snatch them away peevishly, lofty expression softening when the amulet fell out of them on the floor.

Hell, yes. In Bull’s fantasy, the mage is so grateful, tears shining in his eyes, they have loud, passionate, kinky sex right in the middle of the camp.

The Bull urged his travelling companions to hurry up, promised them both 10 sovereigns a piece if they get to the camp before noon. Meeting Dorian halfway meant they could share an entire evening of pleasure before duty called them apart again.

Varric’s quips didn’t land, Vivienne’s admonishments went unheeded. The whole world fell away as Bull spurred his mount in the direction of the Emerald Graves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mark, two. I initially wrote this between sets and thought it was good. I re-read it in the Lyft home and realised it wasn't very well written at all.
> 
> That's what you get for taking half your tips in liquid form, ladies and gents.
> 
> Rededicated to Meemei, pamurai, and the constant BTP.


	6. Relative Worth of Onomastics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nothing like a long walk to rethink your life decisions.

How embarrassing, fainting like young maiden at court. Despite Blackwall’s conveniently offered explanation about blood loss and pressure dropping, it was so distinctly unmanly.

The Warden used a bit of cloth to tourniquet above the gashes, but it did nothing to ease the incredible pain in his hip. Each step was agony but Dorian refused to admit it for fear of further upsetting Cole. 

Cole was so distraught, desperate to take away the pain, it was heartbreaking to vocalise any discomfort.  

Not to mention Dorian didn’t want to show any weakness in front of Blackwall. The smelly, beardy Warden was helping him limp through the forest, the mage’s arm over a mailed shoulder.  

They just had to make it to the rendezvous, or so the Inquisitor kept saying. They had already been walking all night, the morning light did little to lift their morale.

A thought occurred to him, if Cole was anything like Dorian’s youngest cousin, maybe he could be distracted. Anything to make their torturous stagger through the Graves tolerable. 

“Hey, Cole.” Dorian suppressed a grin.

“Yes, Dorian?” So willing to help.

“Why do bees have sticky hair?”

Blackwall held his breath, prayed the mage wasn’t going septic.

“Do they? Why do they have sticky hair?”

“Because they have honeycombs.”

The Warden laughed unexpectedly. Never in a milion years…

“Okay, Cole. Where do ghosts meet?”

“Inside or outside of the Fade?”

“At the rendez-boo point.” 

Cole’s awe and amazement was almost too much. Blackwall would never be able to explain his sudden desire to join in.

“What kind of cup can one not drink from?”

He felt Dorian chuckle then cough.

“A cupcake, too easy!”

“Let’s hear your next one, then, mage.”

“Do you want to hear the joke about my cock?”

Backwall didn’t interject, though this was sure to be groan-inducing, practically lifted Dorian over a tall root.

“Nevermind, it’s too long.”

Cole looked between the two of them. He obviously did not get the joke, but looked relieved they were smiling.

“Fine, fair enough.” Blackwall pondered for a moment. “Do you want to hear the joke about my arse?”

He had even the Inquisitor's attention.

“Nevermind, you’ll never get it.”

Dorian snorted with laughter. Both now realised the joke itself did not matter to Cole, so long as one of they two appreciated it, the mirth momentarily suspended the hurt.    

“Really? Well,  the only way you'll ever get laid is if you crawl up a chicken's ass and camp out.”

“Eggs don’t come from asses. You’d know that if you’d ever been with a woman... How do you say ‘fuck you’ in Tevene?”

“Ha! ‘Trust me.’ I vastly prefer the sexual company of men, you think I care how many women you’ve seen naked? Incidentally, what’s the difference between ooooh and aaaaah?”

“About 3 inches. The Bull told you that one, it’s one of mine.”

“Dammit. Okay, then. What’s the difference between peanut butter and jam?”

 

They arrived later than expected, a little behind the setting sun. The Bull had fully expected Dorian to be sitting at the campfire, a ratty old wool shawl draped over his shoulders, already complaining about the energy required to keep meals warm for tardy warriors.

The Requisition Officer could offer no further insight other than saying they should have arrived by now. The information made Bull uneasy.

When night fell and there was still no sign of the Inquisitor and Company, Bull’s worry had begun to manifest as moderate panic. Vivienne so annoyed with his pacing, she threatened to turn him into a toad if he didn’t sit down.

Hours drag by and no word reached the camp.

“Don’t sweat it, Tiny. They probably found an ancient temple overflowing with treasure. They’ll be back soon enough, laden with ill-gotten goods.” Varric did his best to be reassuring.

 

They tried the horse again but, by now, Blackwall was wondering if Dorian’s hip might not be broken. The mage continued to insist there was nothing wrong, continued to try and distract Cole, telling his terrible jokes, but went pale as a sheet if any pressure was applied on his right side.  

The only upside Blackwall could find was the natural deterrent the dragon’s blood now soaking them both provided. Animals and beasts avoided them like the Blight and they were able to travel largely unimpeded. 

Yet the walk seemed endless, all of them running out of energy. The jokes are fewer and farther between.  

It’s almost a miracle they reach the camp. 

 

Bull feels tension drain from his shoulders and back, hears them before he sees them. Blackwall and Dorian laughing quietly, the Inquisitor telling Cole somethings are better left unexplained.

An icy tendril wraps his heart and slinks through his gut when turns and he sees them.

Cole looks inconsolably miserable, the Inquisitor won’t meet his eye. Blackwall is spattered with blood and viscera. And Dorian- Dorian looks like he has taken a literal bloodbath. He’s clinging to the Grey Warden, limping heavily.  

“You ought to see the other fellow.” Dorian does his best to ease the fear plain on The Bull’s face as he hobbles to sit before the fire. He is immensely relieved to see his massive paramour. 

“Girl. High dragons are girls.” Blackwall almost falls next to him.

“Right, apparently I am quite bad at making that distinction. Forever sticking it in all the wrong holes.” 

The Warden grunts in appreciation.

Bull hasn’t quite managed to move from his spot, is rooted to the ground. All he can do is watch them voraciously devour the leftovers in the pot.  

Vivienne and Varric rush forward to offer any assistance they can. The Inquisitor waves them off, tells them dinner and a good night’s rest are all that’s in order. Dorian is the only one who might need a healer. 

“I’m sorry, The Iron Bull. I think it’s my fault.” Cole says softly, the spirit is ashamed.  

Bull’s mouth won’t move to ask what is Cole’s fault. Walking towards his mage is like walking through jelly. Only when he is standing directly beside the man can he see his right leg looks badly injured.

“Don’t worry so, Cole!” The mage says flippantly, though it’s apparent he is in pain. “We’re here now. Bull is going to help me get cleaned up, and then he’s going to fix me up good as new.”

The Bull doesn't know what is more terrifying; the fact he doesn’t know if he can help Dorian, or that Dorian sounds so confident he will be able to.

“Yes.” Cole is unsure, perhaps reading Bull’s thoughts, but doesn’t repeat them aloud.  “Yes, The Iron Bull is good at helping your hurt.”

“Here,” Dorian gestures to Bull, motions he should assist the mage to his feet, “I’m very literally on my last leg. I would fight another high dragon for a hot bath, but a whore’s will have to do for now.” 

The instant they are out of eyesight, Dorian crumples against him.

“I’ve had the very worst day.” The mage makes an attempt to sound chipper. “If you don’t have booze in your tent, I am going to need you to hit me over the head with a very large rock.”

“What happened to your leg?” Bull asks regarding the bloody tourniquet.

“You know, I’ve never understood why you adore dragons. They are horrid beasts, absolutely wretched and possess no sense of personal space.” 

“Is it broken?” The qunari hopes his tone conveys he is not in the mood for coy, nug-shit answers. The wound looks serious.

“I don’t think so?” 

The Bull realised with a measure of exasperation he would have to be the judge of that. 

 

Dorian settled back against The Bull’s pack with the flask of Maraas-Lok, let himself be cleaned off and stripped.

“This’s divine.”

Bull didn’t know if he should attribute the slight slur to the alcohol or exhaustion. Intoxication was preferable; Dorian’s hip was not broken but it was dislocated and needed to be reset.

The Maker Dorian believes in must be a depraved being. As Bull rests his hand against the smaller man’s hip, he can’t help but view the situation as a cruel perversion of their love making; the mage naked beneath him, breathing hard, gaze a little unsteady but entirely trusting.

Except his expression was one of steely resolve and not lust, his complexion ashen rather than rosy.

Bull tipped the flask up as Dorian drank from it, encouraging him to get as close to black out as possible for what he was about to do.

The pain of resetting the dislocation would be intense, but short lived. Bull didn't feel any guilt in getting the bones back into their right place. But he would have given anything to take on the lifetime of discomfort the hip would give his kadan. It would ache terribly on cold mornings, get stiff and throb from sitting in the library, would likely require a cane when Dorian’s moustache was grey.

“Ready?” The Bull asked, had the joint aligned to pop it back into place.

“Not even a little. Fuck! Ow!  _ Ass _ !”

“Sorry, it was better you didn’t see it coming.”

“Yup, infinitely better. Hardly felt anything at all.” 

Dorian was a little woozy, adrenaline draining out of his muscles, drinking catching up with him.

“Rest.” Bull told him, though he was already falling asleep.

 

The Bull isn’t entirely sure what to do with himself so he takes up Dorian’s blood soaked clothes and walks with them to the river. They won’t be dry by the morning, but maybe he can prevent some of the staining.

He rinses them as best he can and squeezes to remove the dried gore, the material is to fine to ring out. 

“Shit!” 

Bull almost loses Dorian’s coat in the current when something in the pocket stabs him. He pokes through the folds, trying to find the object, irrational fear telling him it might be a big spider.

It is not a spider, thankfully, but a long, white tooth. Bull looks it over trying to identify the species. Before he can put it in his own pocket to keep it from being washed away, a switch in his brain flicks on.

Dragon tooth.

He doesn’t know if he should laugh or cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have it on good authority the punch line to Dorian's joke is "I can't peanut butter my cock up your ass."


	7. Bowdlerization

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes it's better to leave things left unsaid.

The Bull was upset. He knew he shouldn’t be. He reminded himself he loved Dorian because he was obstinate and hot-tempered. An inability to think things through came with the territory.

It made the mage very easy to bait in conversation, which was fun. But it had the potential to make him do rash things in the heat of battle.

“Don’t you _dare_ give me that look. Cremisius told me how you lost your eye.”

Always so disconcerting when he does that.

“I’m not giving you a look, I’m looking at you.”

“Yes, I’m just so very pretty you can’t help yourself.”

Dorian had grown weary of the conversation very early on. He insisted he hadn’t done anything reckless, but Bull had clearly overstepped by going through his pockets. If he wanted to gallivant around Thedas, drop kicking monsters in the teeth, it was entirely his own business.

“For the last time, I was washing your clothes. I thought they would stain. I wasn’t ‘snooping’ through anything.”

He didn’t want an argument, but wanted to impress upon the mage he cared far less about antiquated rituals than having someone to share them with. Bull couldn’t live with himself if Dorian got himself killed over a stupid trinket.

Today it was trying to yank body parts off dragons, would tomorrow find him scaling icy cliffs for rare Vitaar pigments?

Sand dunes were far more likely.

Bull wanted to get this talk out of the way while Dorian had no choice but to sit and listen to him. The prickly ‘Vint had tried a few times to get up and walk away before accepting he wasn't quickly going anywhere on his own for a while.

Instead of making the conversation easier, Dorian’s immobility made him caustic and spiteful, like a cornered animal. Defensive from the moment The Bull tossed him the tooth, asked him what he was doing with it.

“And I am telling you, _for the last time_ , getting the tooth was entirely incidental. She found us, I did not go looking for a dragon." Not entirely true. "If I wanted to contend with a mindless savage I would have stayed with you in Skyhold.”

“You could have been so much more seriously injured. Dragons are dangerous.”

“I’m sorry, _mother,_  I forgot I was a child lacking in any and all magical talent. I certainly don’t have the power to, say, set you on fire at this very moment.”

“I didn’t mean-”

“No? Maybe next time someone is in imminent danger of being eaten alive, I’ll sit on the sidelines and watch, fanning myself and swooning. I hope it’s _you_ next time, _ass_.”

Bull rubbed his eye, he was too tired to keep fighting.

“Please just try to be careful. I don’t know what I would do if I lost you, kadan.”

It was a cheap shot, but it worked. Dorian’s wilting look withered, not feeling vindictive enough to pick apart the sentimental confession.

“It really wasn’t that extraordinary a fight, Bull.” Not so much an attempt to save face as to allay any remaining fears. “A little scuffle, nothing more. Blackwall had a handle on things, she only got one good nip in.”

“I’m going to see if the R.O. has anything for the pain.” Bull moved towards the tent flaps, paused. He didn’t want Dorian to think he wasn’t happy about the tooth, what it symbolised. He took it gently from his hands.

“I’ll also give her this. Ask her is there’s a jeweller in Skyhold who can cut it half, mount it, set it on a nice chain or something.”

 

Or something, Dorian thought smugly. Best gift ever. The big bastard had tears in his eye.

Speaking of tears.

The pain on his side had lessened since the previous night, but still presented as a bone deep throbbing. It was tolerable, but only just.

Dorian reached for Bull’s bag. If he was lucky, maybe he had more of that qunari liquor on hand. The bag was a total mess, though, no rhyme or reason to the jumble of things inside. How did the dummy manage being a spy? Had he ever lost vital evidence?

“Hang on.” Dorian pulled out a pair of his own underwear, holding them, confused. Why was Bull running around the jungle with his under pants?

He inspected them, thought maybe he would find a rip or semen stain Bull had hoped to hide.

A gold piece fell out of them. Attached to a chain?

There was no possible way...

 

Bull tried to balance their breakfast and the poppy tea in his hands while trying to get his horns back through the tent opening. He judged the attempt a success when he only spilled a little of the hot water.

“Where did you get this?” Dorian held up his birthright. He didn’t look happy. 

“It was- because Josephine- Who’s snooping now?”

“One could scarcely call it that. You had this waded up in my underpants.”

That didn’t follow in Bull’s mind.

“How is that not what you accused me of an hour ago? I had them in my both in my bag.”

Dorian was thinking, visibly and rapidly putting together an argument Bull wasn’t sure he’d be able to understand or defeat.

“Stop! Just stop before we have to go alway round again. Truce?” 

“Fine, truce.” Then, “But I want an answer to my question. There is no way he would just give this to you.”

To be fair, Ponchard had not simply given the necklace to Bull. There had been a significant amount of intimidation and a few well placed body blows. Maybe Dorian didn’t need to know about that.

“Ponchard was a reasonable guy. It didn’t take much to make him see things my way.” 

“Let me guess, you beat the ever loving shit out of him before- wait, who?” 

This doesn’t seem like a set-up for another fight.

“Ponchard? The man who had it. Little Orlesian guy.”

The name does not register with Dorian, his expression blank. 

“Not a fat fellow, was he?” The mage asked.

“Tinier than you.”

The smaller man let the phrasing slide, thinking again. Whatever was going on in his head, he didn’t voice it.

“Thank you, I guess.” He shook his head. “Sorry, _thank you_. Maker, I’m not very good at accepting gifts, am I?”  

Bull laughed, finally feeling it was safe enough to put their breakfast down, to serve Dorian the tea.

They spoke for a while about possible grenade recipes, something Sera had said about putting little barriers on bees so they could be safely lit on fire. The Bull was into the idea, Dorian promised to look into its plausibility.  

 

Dorian had begun to trail of mid-sentence, eyes falling shut, head bobbing, blinking sleepily. Bull stayed in the tent long enough to finish eating and to make sure the tea had fully kicked in. 

Once Dorian was snoring peacefully, Bull went to find the Inquisitor. It couldn’t be considered dereliction, he reasoned, his real duty was to make sure his kadan got home in one piece.

Blackwall was by the fire, organising his pack. He glanced at The Bull, nodded a good morning. 

Varric was scribbling in a small booklet, didn’t look up while talking. 

“How’s Sparkles?” 

“Sedated.” 

“Fun! Can’t say I’m not a little envious.” The dwarf chuckled. 

“I already spoke to the Inquisitor, Bull.”  Blackwall continued to check over his bag, buckling it shut. “I’m heading on with the group. You go on back to Skyhold.”

It was a generous offer. Despite the stoic bearing, Blackwall had to be exhausted. Bull had been under the impression the Warden and Dorian didn’t like each other very much. 

“Thank you.” The Bull was touched. 

“No thanks necessary. I’m not travelling all the way back by cart with that bawling brat. I’ve had my fill of his constant whining. He’s your problem now.” 

Blackwall swung the bag onto his back and went to join Vivienne at the head of the trail.

“Well then.” Varric put the pencil in his booklet, tucked them both into his jacket. “Try not to die, we’ll do likewise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flying in and out of town for work is the worst.
> 
> You can't edit porn on a plane, can you?


	8. The Imperative Mood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Bull engages in underhanded tactics as a means to the end.

They don't leave that evening or the next. Bull wants to be sure Dorian has time to heal properly. The qunari has plenty of knotted scar tissue in his knee, ankle, scapula, and elbows to attest the foolishness of moving too soon on an injury if it can be helped.

Dorian makes it abundantly clear how dull he finds cot rest, tries to get up and walk around the moment Bull turns his back.

Bull is mentally deliberating the ethics of secretly doubling his dose of tea or mixing the powder into the mage’s food (hell, crumpling the pods into tiny fucking pieces and blowing them directly into Dorian’s face) when Cole appears alongside him.

“You’re angry he won’t sit still. He’s waiting for you to walk away, then he’ll get up again, The Iron Bull.”

The spirit was clearly trying to help, redeem himself after their draconian mishap. This was information Bull already knew, but it still displeased him to hear it. He could see the irony of feeling trapped by or in the tent to prevent Dorian from leaving it.

“Do you really want me to call you The Irony Bull?”

“No.” Bull grumbled, it seemed everyone was able to get into his head these days. “But,” he wondered if he might put the spirit to use in his mage-sitting duties, “do you think you could go in there and do that thing where you make people ‘forget?’”

“Forget he wants to come outside? Or forget he wants very badly to hit you right now?”

Bull was about to be confused until-

“He’s right, you know.” Dorian speaking distinctly from inside the tent. “I _can_ hear you. You’re on the other side of a canvass sheet, not the thick concrete your skull is apparently made of.”

That was going to make his day much easier.

“I can’t do either, both are tied to the same root. It has to be something I can hold onto. I can’t make someone forget they have nothing to do. It’s like forgetting already. Maybe you need something to help him remember?” With that, Cole became engrossed in the grass and wafted towards the edge of the camp.

That wasn’t the worst suggestion Bull had ever heard, though he couldn’t vouch for the manner in which it was presented.

Yeah, he could give the petulant ‘Vint a distraction he’d remember for a good long while.  

 

Dorian knew he was being difficult but was so unbelievably, mind-numbingly bored. He wasn’t asking to rappel down the side of a steep cliff or to sprint barefoot through the woods, only to limp over to the little potions table and fiddle with the stupid bee recipe.

He didn’t even need to introduce the bees yet.

“I still don’t have any books and there is no more alcohol.” Bull stated as he entered the tent cautiously, his stooped posture making him appear like a Chantry supplicant.

“If you don't have anything for me to do, don’t bother coming in.”

“Hey, I didn’t say I was empty handed.” The Bull slid a large hand over the front of his garish trousers.

“You aren’t going to fuck me.” Hard not to feel pity for the optimism with which he uttered the dare.

“No, I’m not going to fuck you. But we can still have some fun.”

“As I’m practically your prisoner…”

“So you wanna play that game, huh?”

Dorian allowed himself to be gently pressed back against the low cot, remained coyly indulgent as Bull tied his hands to the frame above his head.

“Stay.” Spoken as one might to a well trained pet.    

It was flustering, but Dorian felt himself harden immediately at the command. How dare the big, brutish bastard talk to him like he was a dog? Mabari were great stupid beasts, slobbering on everything, humping the furniture, eating anything you put in front of them. If either man in the tent was a dog, it was assuredly The Bull.

No, Dorian imagined he was more like an elegant, sinewy black cat- impeccable whiskers and neat little teeth.

His inner monologue was interrupted as Bull knelt over him, tried not to puncture the tent with his broad horns.

Bull held Dorian by the hair, helped him find a comfortable angle to swallow most of the massive qunari’s cock. The thrusts were kept shallow so Dorian could breathe easily, giving his tongue room to lick the underside.

The smaller man was obedient, permitted Bull to guide his mouth along the fat shaft, did not try to exert his own will over the act, submitted entirely to it.      

It was flattering to watch Dorian try to drink as much come as possible but to have so much left over, a thick trail running from the mage’s lips to the head of Bull’s cock.

The Bull eased Dorian’s leggings down, trying not to pull on them too hard. The discolouration at the mage’s side was partially obscured by the pigment of his skin, but it was visible enough it would probably take weeks to completely fade. The four tooth marks on his thigh were clotting well, the scabs already smaller than they were the day before. Bull touched them lightly, feeling for any heat or swelling which might indicate infection.

“Are they going to leave scars?”

Bull half expected Dorian’s expression to be one of dismay or sorrow. Instead it was one of thrill, the excitement of being marked for the first time in battle. Aside from a handful of marks on his fingers (suspected to be burns from a time before the mage had been properly trained) and a small pale, half moon on his knee, Dorian’s flesh had previously been unmarred.

He was too old to be so pleased about the prospect of a scar, a trait which was endearing in its foreignness to The Bull. He could no longer identify which of the many grooves carved into his person had been the first. It had been very long ago, though, at the other end of his life.

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure they will.”

The qunari pressed his lips to the wounds, lightly stroked Dorian’s bruised hip, before taking the smaller man in his mouth. He had a plan in mind, wanted to do something kind before implementing his devious machinations.

Dorian swore softly as a single, long finger was pressed into him. It entered him too slowly, too gently. The temptation to bare down was maddening, but he was determined to obey Bull’s order to stay still.

“Bull, please, it’s not enough!” The mage whimpered, displaying tremendous self-control.

Bull ceased his sucking, sat up. He took Dorian in his free hand as if he would jerk him off. The Bull had to exercise a little self-control himself to avoid giving the mage what he so clearly wanted.

The subtle squeezing provided sufficient stimulation to keep Dorian hard, but lacked the friction to bring him to the edge.

“Did you want to come, too?” Bull asked teasingly.

The game was following a familiar script, Dorian not yet aware Bull had an ulterior motive, letting the qunari work him up, lone finger and dick squeezes tormentingly insufficient.

“Please, Bull, please I want to come.”

“What will you do for me if I let you come?”

“Anything!”

Almost too easy. He leaned over to whisper in the panting man’s ear.

“I want you to be a good boy for me and…. promise you’ll stay in bed for the rest of the day.”

The look of distressed arousal replaced by one of fury in an instant.

“You mother-fucking son of-”

“Hey, maybe you don’t really want to come, big guy. I could always just leave you tied up like this. Might take you awhile to get loose.” Bull continued to slide his finger back and forth, bending at the knuckle to apply pressure to just the right spot.

Dorian was glaring daggers but didn’t magic fireballs down on his horns.

“Fine _.”_

“And you have to stay in bed all day tomorrow, too. We can go home the day after.”

“ _Fine_ . Two days.” A pause before continuing. “But I want a _barrel_ of your qunari liquor when we get back to Skyhold. _And_ I get to tell Krem about your shitty romance novels.”

“Do you promise?”

“Yes, yes, I promise. Now get to work, ruthless bastard.”

Bull resumed his licking, this time with gusto. He added another finger, scissoring and thrusting them roughly.

A fair trade. Though he’d have to remember to tell Krem Dorian was spouting nonsense in retribution for a perceived slight.

 

When Bull left the tent, he was absolutely famished. Dorian had insisted on two orgasms, one for each day. He didn’t remember that being part of the deal, but was content enough to concede.

Cole was before the fire, gazing at the smoke in astonishment.

“Thanks, Cole.” Bull clapped the spirit on the back, taking a seat next to him on the log.

“Why, The Iron Bull?”

“Eh, forget about it. What’s for dinner tonight?”

“Minced nuglet, wrapped in it’s own innards, cooked in it’s own fat.”

“Aaaand suddenly I’ve lost my appetite.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god. I hate hotels. My flight was delayed 9 hours and I had to sit around with my thumb up my ass like a moron.


	9. Past Tense

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian admits to being an apostitute, The Bull admits to being a panty sniffer.

“Tell me something about you I don’t already know.”

The Bull looks up from the map. Dorian has been sipping poppy tea all afternoon and his voice sounds a little dreamy.

It would be nice to finish planning their route home but Dorian has been so well behaved he feels like he owes him. They probably won’t leave until after they’ve had breakfast tomorrow, so there’s still plenty of time.

“Hmm.” Bull gives the request some thought. “I sniff your panties when you’re not around.”

“Gross. But I already knew that. You also leave stains on them you think I don’t notice. Stop using my underpants as a jizz rag. Better, please.”

These are the moments which advance relationships, Bull thinks, realising he may have to offer up something more personal.

“I miss Par Vollen, sometimes my tama, too. I miss speaking my own language, discussing the Qun in it.”

“You can teach me Qunlat, if you want. I'll listen to you talk about the Qun.”

“You don’t want to hear about the Qun.”

“Not really, but you don’t want to hear about the Imperium, I talk about it all the time anyway.”

Bull chuckles quietly. It is very true.

“Alright then, your turn.”

Dorian takes a drink then offers Bull the tea. It tastes like honey, but it makes his tongue feel funny.

“I love Ferelden beer.”

“Everyone knows that.”

“Really? Well… then…” Dorian is troubled by the news. He takes a moment to recover from the blow. “It makes me very angry when people mistreat others due to accident of birth. It makes me ashamed I didn’t understand the plight of those in bondage until so recently.”

Bull laughs again, a little louder this time.

“In _slavery_.” Dorian corrects himself hotly.

“Sorry. My turn again?” The mage nods. The qunari feels like he should offer something even more intimate by way of apology. It is hard to let Hissrad slip away and give The Iron Bull permission to speak freely.

“I still have nightmares about Seheron.”

Dorian stares at the canvas above him, not sure how to respond.

“What- what was it like? If you can stand to think about it.”

“Murder, misery, and mayhem, you know the drill. It’s one thing to cut down warriors, to face a man in armour. So many children, though. Innocent blood staining everything it touches.” Bull contemplates his hands, the missing fingers. “It never washes off... you don’t ever get to be clean again.”

The look he receives is too sad. Bull can’t quite meet those eyes.

“If you need to talk about it, I’m here.”

The Bull does want to talk about it, but doesn't know how.

“No, thank you. Not right now. You go.”

“Dear me, I don’t think I have anything so dark or sordid in my past. Spoiled little rich boy, I’m afraid.”

Now that can’t possibly be true.

“When I gave you this,” Bull taps the amulet around Dorian’s neck, “You sounded pretty sure you knew the guy who had it. That sounded like an interesting story.”

“Oh, yes.” The smaller man has a positively immodest grin on his face, remembering something erotic in nature. “I really wish I had something stronger to drink than this tea.”

“You have to tell me now.”

“Okay, okay. I did tell you about leaving home, right? Understandably I was in a bit of a hurry to get as far away as possible as quickly as possible. In my haste I neglected to bring necessities. Food, water, valuables, money.”

“And you’re normally so prudent.”

“Just one of my many, many fine qualities. Now where was I?”

“Broke as shit in Redcliffe?”

“Outside Cumberland, actually.” Dorian finishes his tea, indicates he would like a little more. “Anyway, there I was stranded on the wrong side of the ocean without a copper to my name. Poor little old me, dashing but ever so destitute.

“I was just about to be ejected from yet another pub when a very kind man offered to pay my bills and provide a night’s lodging. There are some signs I’d never mistake now, but I was hungry, cold, and fairly bored, honestly. Being poor is not as intellectually stimulating as ascetics would have you believe.”

Bull was starting to get a little worried about the trajectory of the tale. He couldn’t go around kicking the ass of every man living north of the Waking Sea.

“Anyway! I won’t bore you with the details of extravagant gifts, lavish parties, enough fine wine to pickle a gurn. He asked me to stay with him forever. I considered it sure, at the time I’d never had such a fantastic cock.”

The Bull made a noise of mock sorrow.

“At the time.” Dorian reiterates. “What can I say? I like a big man. I was going places and, when I told him, he insisted I owed him some sort of compensation for all he’d done. Outside of the pretty things he’d given me, I didn’t have anything of value.

He asked for my birthright, told me he was certain I would be back, either for it or for him. Other than that little bit of extortion, he wasn’t a terrible person. I can empathise with his loneliness. I was a little put out when I thought you might have beaten him half to death for it.”

“You’ve never told me this story.” And Dorian tells The Bull practically everything. “Didn’t you want it back?”

“A little embarrassing, admitting to being a high class whore, even if I was the best dressed whore in the city.”

Prostitutes are common in Bull’s country. There is no taboo on renting one’s body for food and shelter.  

“No different than a healer.”

“What an interesting take on the idea! I’m eager to learn more about the Qun now.”

“Does it make you sad to think about it?”

“Obviously you’ve never been paid 10 sovereigns to have your cock sucked.”

“I’m usually the one paying for the pleasure.”

“Ha! To answer your question, I miss the money? I don’t miss the sense of obligation. If I was more selfless, I fancy I could make a name for myself as an apostitute.”

It is Bull’s turn to contemplate a response. Dorian doesn't sound like he is fishing for pity, just answering Bull in his characteristically sassy manner.

It is also his turn to offer another secret.

“In Seheron, I had a friend.”

Dorian seems relieved he is no longer the centre of attention. A first for everything.

“He was Vasaad, but we sometimes called him Ariqon in jest. One of the most dedicated warriors I ever had the pleasure working with, but as dumb as a sack of shit. Tama used to say he should tie the sword to his hand so he didn’t forget which end to use."

It's easy to talk about Vasaad as he was in life. Nearly impossible to speak about his death.

“We had trained together, fought together many times. He was brash, foolhardy. I should have made him wait, I let him run into an unknown situation. He should have died from the wound, but I could see he was clinging to life.

“He asked me to end it, to make it quick and painless. I… didn’t have the strength. He bled out so slowly. I don’t remember what happened next, apart from tearing Tal-Vashoth apart with my bare hands. Asala-ataar they called it. It felt more like madness. Nothing made sense, I couldn’t understand people’s words, I couldn’t take comfort in the Qun. Disorder, chaos.

“I wanted the Re-Educators to destroy what was left of me, my mind, so I wouldn’t have to remember his face as he gasped for air, choking on his own blood.

“They told me I still had more use. I was so tired, but you cannot say no to the orders of the Qun. And- fuck, I’m still talking, aren’t I?”

It was awkward, Bull decided. Dorian didn't interrupt him once. Man, he went real dark with it real fast. When he looked over, Dorian’s cheeks were wet with tears. Shit, his own eye seemed to be leaking. Really, horribly, stupidly awkward.

“Just come here.” Dorian held his arms open, pulled The Bull against him. “It wasn’t your fault. You would have helped if you could have.”

It doesn’t make the guilt go away, but it makes it more bearable.

Bull wanted to stay curled next to his kadan up all night, but knew he needed to finish planning their travel route. He breaks the embrace so he can turn back to the map. He feels raw and tense, not sure how to break the silence.

“Bull?” At this point, any more sympathy would be overwhelming. Instead of whispering sweet nothings, Dorian settles back on the cot, resumes drinking his tea. “Have I ever told you the story about the flying cows over Minrathous?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woohoo, having a blast in Chicago. Any locals know of good gay bars in the city? The hotel bar seems to be full of prudes.


	10. Mini-Epilogue: Future Progressive and Perfect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Don't look a gift druffalo up the ass?

The cart rolls merrily along, the ancient druffalo pulling it lowing agreeably. They are all in a good enough mood, Dorian even forgives the constantly squeaking wheel.

“I spy through a Tranquil’s eye, something beginning with ‘G.’” 

“Grass?” The Bull’s conscience is lighter than it has been in decades. Barring further grievous bodily harm, this will have been the best outing of his life thus far.

“Ooh, bad guess, amatus. It’s a good thing you’re not a spy or anything, you’d be terrible at it. Great Heron.” Dorian points out the bird as it flies overhead.

“Hmpf. I’ve got my eyes on the road. Something beginning with an ‘A.’”

“Ass?” His kadan quips, the duffalo’s a furry brown expanse in their field of view.

“Was gunna go with anus, but close enough.”

A disgusted noise.

“I see a fennec.” Cole says, wholly missing the point. Dorian and Bull decide the game wasn’t that much fun anyway.

The rest of the trip home is uneventful. Cole only occasionally asking questions which make Dorian stammer, The Bull takes immense pleasure in answering. 

They make camp once, but Bull still can’t stomach the idea of eating the leftover nug sausages. He pulls them apart, trying not to think about how cute the little face must have been before it was diced into pieces, wrapped in on itself.

“But their hands are horrifying.” Dorian tells him as justification, eating with relish.

The Bull makes do with a few handfuls of raisins.   

 

When Skyhold appears on the horizon, only Bull is awake, his companions snoozing in the back of the cart. At least, he  _ knows _ Dorian is sleeping, the sound probably scaring away animals in the dark. He  _ thinks _ Cole is sleeping, but he may only be silently imitating the mage.   

He holds off on waking them until they are inside the gates, pulling up to the stables. Dennet sees to the druffalo, walking it to a free pen for food and water.

Cole doesn’t say goodbye, instead he simply wanders off in the direction of the Herald’s Rest, speaking to himself.

Dorian won’t let The Bull carry him back to his room, but he should have known that before offering. The smaller man leans on him very lightly, his gait is stiff but he doesn’t have a pronounced limp. Bull will save his ‘I told you so’s’ for the morning.

Bathing with hot water and soap is euphoric. Bull scrubs Dorian’s hair, helps him rinse away the last of the dried dragon’s blood. Now that they are safely home, the qunari warrior is a little dejected they didn’t get a chance to fuck like crazed rabbits while his kadan was covered in it.

“There’s nothing sexy about being drenched in vital humours. You’ve got to get over your whole conquering-things fetish.” Dorian tells him, but Bull doesn’t buy it. Next time they fight a dragon, he plans on rolling around in the blood before banging the mage atop the vanquished beast. 

“Do you think Dagna can make us a toy from one of the bones?” 

“Wonderful. That’s just what I’d like. Give that scaly bitch the satisfaction of screwing me twice-over.”   

Dorian is checking his scabs in the mirror, though he still appears pleased with them.

They snuggle under the covers, Bull resting his hand on the small of Dorian’s back, Dorian using Bull’s leg to support his injured leg.

“I’ll talk to Dagna after breakfast.” Dorian sleepily cedes.

“Yeah you will!” Bull is already excited for tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Done with this chunklet. 
> 
> I need a change of pace from the sappy, maybe I will get on the puppy scene today. I'm getting so little work done, but at the very least this is keeping me occupied.
> 
> But first, it's time for a HarmonQuest break.


End file.
